Bryce: Ex-Business: An Ex-Club Romance

by Camilla Stevens

  Edie turns to acknowledge me with a death stare in those perfect brown eyes of hers. God, I fell hard for those endless pools once upon a time.

  “Sorry, just trying to point out there’s nothing wrong with a bit of femininity in the workplace.”

  “I have no idea what you get up to at Ideal Gentlemen, but forgive me for actually wanting to be taken seriously at my magazine,” she says.

  “Speaking of our respective magazines,” I say with an impish grin. “I thoroughly enjoyed last month’s issue of Contempo Woman.”

  “Okay fine, let’s hear it,” she says with a heavy sigh. She blithely waves one hand in the air. “Mock away, Bryce.”

  “Nonsense, I love everything about Contempo Woman. In fact, I found one headline in particular highly entertaining,” I squint up to the side as though trying to recall it. “What was it, ‘Twenty Ways to Tickle his Pickle’?”

  A soft, almost imperceptible groan escapes her gorgeous lips. “Please, don’t remind me.”

  I laugh, having finally gotten to her. “I like the idea well enough, but I can think of a few better ways to phrase it. I personally would have gone with ‘Twenty Ways to Prod his Rod’.”

  She turns to look at me again, her brow creased with disdain as though it’s far too early in the day for this nonsense. “Really, Bryce?”

  “Okay, Her Highness hates that one. How about ‘Rock his Cock’?”

  There is an almost imperceptible uptick on one side of her mouth. “You try putting ‘cock’ on the cover of your magazine and tell me how that works out for you.”

  “Hmm, I see your point. Let’s go with…‘Shock his Jock’?”

  “Good grief,” she says, closing her eyes and shaking her head and turning to face the elevators again.

  “‘Wake his Snake’?”

  Edie turns to stare at me for a long moment before a reluctant smile threatens to take over her mouth. “I suppose it’s not any worse than what we went with.”

  “‘Wrong his Shlong’?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Any hint of amusement fades into a deadpan stare, Edie slowly shaking her head. Still, she can’t keep the amused look from eventually coming back to her face.

  “See? Even you have to laugh at that one,” I taunt. “And for our friends across the pond, ‘Bugger his Tugger’.”

  Having almost succumbed once, it’s easier for her to finally laugh.

  “Speaking of foreign readership, how about, ‘Unhood his Wood’, strictly for our sheathed brethren of course.”

  “Ugh, you’re so crude,” Edie says, slapping my arm with the back of her hand.

  Mornings like this, in which I’ve finally melted those iron-clad defenses of hers are the best.

  The elevator arrives with a ding. We have the car to ourselves so I continue the fun.

  “‘Chub his Sub’.”

  “Gross,” she groans, wrinkling her nose at me in disgust.

  “Yeah, that was pretty bad,” I confess with a laugh. “‘Rickle his Dickle’?”

  She coughs out a laugh. “What does that even mean?”

  “I’m more than happy to give you one-on-one lessons but I don’t think the residents of the building who join us on the ride down will appreciate it.”

  “You’re absolutely hopeless,” she says, though I do note the way she quickly averts her eyes. Perhaps I’m not the only one who remembers that night back in business school. To be fair, it was quite unforgettable.

  “I’m only getting started. ‘Spring his Thing’. Tell me you don’t know what that one means.” I waggle my eyebrows suggestively.

  “You’re slightly back on track,” she mutters, finally playing along.

  “‘Throttle his Bottle’.”

  “And…he goes crashing right off the rails again.”

  “‘Wiggle his Tiggle’. ‘Toodle his Noodle’. ‘Fiddle his Diddle’.”

  “Now, you’re just being ridiculous,” she says with a critical look, but she fails at biting back the grin of amusement. “How do you know so many euphemisms anyway?”

  “You obviously didn’t spend a certain period of your wonder years as a teenage boy, Edie. There is a very depraved part of my coming-of-age memory bank dedicated to all things dick, complete with hazard tape and warning signs.”

  The doors open and an older woman walks on, carrying a tiny dog in her arms. I’m not even remotely ready to end the fun yet.

  “‘Indulge his Bulge’,” I whisper.

  It’s loud enough for the woman to hear and turn to me with a confused and suspicious frown. Edie softly punches me in the arm, biting back a laugh.

  This is the most fun I’ve had since she moved in.

  “‘Trick his Stick’…or Di—”

  “Stop,” she hisses, but the giggle that comes out neuters the force of it.

  Imagine that, Edie giggling. It once again reminds me of that night—playing pool, loosening her up with brandy, then too many tequila shots, her hanging off my shoulder, whispering in my ear…

  The elevator stops on another floor and this time it’s a mother with two young kids. Edie shoots me a warning look. I return an indignantly arched eyebrow as though I’m appalled she would think so lowly of me.

  The rest of the ride down is taken over by the squabble of arguing tykes and a mother who has already had her fill this morning. I smile down at the two boys with admiration as they verbally duke it out. I don’t know why I love kids so much. Maybe it’s their complete and utter lack of inhibition. I can’t wait to have my own someday.

  My eyes slide to Edie and I find her looking down at them with surprising sentimentality, a hint of a smile touching her lips. I would have thought such early-morning, high-pitched bickering would be an affront to her grown-up sensibilities.

  I wonder what our kids would be like. Definitely my sense of humor; that goes without saying. She’s probably smarter than I am, so hopefully they’d get her brains. Her large brown eyes. Her kissable lips. Her practicality. Her…everything.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she seems to catch me looking and she stiffens, straightening up and coughing away any hint of regard for the two towheaded boys before us. Her eyes practically latch themselves to the doors ahead, patently ignoring me as we take on a few more passengers.

  When we reach the ground floor, it’s last on, first off. We are the last two remaining.

  “Beauty before wisdom,” I say, waving Edie toward the open doors.

  She turns to me with a sardonic smile. “Well, that still leaves us at an impasse, no?”

  “Yes, I do have a rather handsome face to go along with my dazzling intelligence. So kind of you to acknowledge it, Edie.”

  She rolls her eyes away from me and, without missing a beat, walks out.

  “Have a good day at Ideal Gentlemen, Bryce.”

  “Same to you at Contempo Woman, Edie.”

  I smile as I watch her go. Even though her magazine’s offices are only five street blocks away, she catches a cab. The way she walks in those stiletto heels of hers, it’s probably a good thing. Even with pants hiding two of her best features, she’s a walking wet dream. The heterosexual male population of this part of Manhattan would never be able to get any work done after glimpsing that work of art.

  I walk to work, as usual, all the better since the early fall weather is so nice. The offices of my magazine are equally close in the opposite direction.

  Without even thinking, I start whistling “Copacabana’.

  Chapter Three

  Edie

  Taking a taxi has become a habit at this point. Considering the traffic on Madison Avenue, it probably takes longer than walking, but it gives me time to decompress.

  Mostly, because I always end up riding the elevator down with Bryce each morning.

  I need to step out of whatever silly mood he puts me in and put on my editor-in-chief hat before I step foot into the New York offices of Contempo Woman. A reluctant laugh hits me as I recall some of the more ridiculous
suggestions from the elevator ride down.

  I quickly shake it off.

  Damn him!

  Even seven years later I have yet to scratch that itch he creates in me. The one that reluctantly reminds me of that fateful night. The one that even the painful hangover of regret and embarrassment the week after couldn’t erase.

  I could blame the Hennessy he bought me after he wore down my defenses. I could blame the shots I happily threw back after that. I could blame the way he looked in that dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up showing off the corded muscle of his forearms. I could blame the way the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, showing off just the right amount of chest hair as he leaned over to make a shot at the pool table…

  I inadvertently clench my thighs together as a wave of heat runs through me.

  “Good grief, Edie,” I whisper to myself, frowning toward the passing pedestrians through the window as the taxi creeps along.

  I seriously need to get laid.

  No, I seriously need to move to a new apartment.

  Yesterday.

  I just had to move into the building where the daughter of the new head of Conniver Media lives. I thought “accidentally” running into Kitty Edelman every once in a while, buttering her up, would give me a leg-up with her notoriously indulgent father.

  How was I supposed to know that the only unit, or at least one of the only acceptable units, would be right across the hall from Bryce Wilmington?

  There’s just too much to think about right now to bother with finding a new place to live. Thus, I summarily push that thought aside.

  The taxi finally reaches the building where my magazine’s offices are and my mind easily shifts to focus on the day ahead.

  All thoughts of Bryce disappear.

  Almost.

  “Do you think I dress too severely?” I ask Nicole, the fashion editor of our magazine.

  She turns to Veronica, our articles editor, who is also sitting in my office, and raises her brow slightly.

  These are my two most trusted allies and the closest thing I have to “friends” here at Contempo.

  Veronica Mendez is a carryover from the days when my mother “ran” things—I use quotes only because Cassandra LeFleur (born: Cassie Lawson) was more of a figurehead than anything. She was the wild and flashy face of the groundbreaking magazine. Even in the years following the sexual revolution, it was a big deal to be so refreshingly frank and honest when it came to matters of the bedroom (or any room, really), especially for a women’s magazine.

  I’d worked at the magazine during college, learning my way around the lower floors. Veronica was the one to show me the ropes up here in the managing offices. Although her personality is a bit reserved, and it’s rare for her to crack a smile, her wisdom is beyond measure.

  Nicole Jackson was brought on board a few years ago, headhunted from another women’s magazine. She’s the exact opposite of Veronica, far more vibrant and sociable. It’s evident in the colorful but tasteful way she dresses and how she styles her natural hair; today, the thick mass of tight curls is pushed to the side with a large comb. Even though my own sense of style leaves something to be desired, aesthetically speaking, I can appreciate someone with a good editorial eye.

  This is why I’m seeking her opinion now.

  “The truth,” I insist.

  Nicole considers me for a moment, long enough to answer the question for me.

  “Never mind,” I say with a sigh.

  “I wouldn’t say…severe. Just a bit…too stuffy for your age, perhaps?” Nicole says, continuing on anyway. She purses her lips and tilts her head. “The French twist is nice, very sophisticated. But the constant pants and suit jackets? You run a women’s magazine, not the FBI, Edie. Come to think of it, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen your legs.”

  Instantly my mind goes back to Bryce’s comments this morning about my “gams.”

  “You should let me give you a makeover!” Nicole exclaims, bubbling with excitement. “We could do a feature in the magazine on it. It would be so perfect! I can just picture it now.”

  Veronica lowers her eyes to the floor and pointedly raises one brow. I swear she’s biting back a rare grin.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say, moving on from that line of thought. I never, ever tell anyone working at this magazine that an idea is bad or ridiculous or never-going-to-happen-even-if-hell-does-freeze-over. Some of the best ideas have come out of stream-of-consciousness blabbering. Some of the worst too, but the point remains. I want to be the kind of editor-in-chief that promotes a healthy exchange of ideas.

  The makeover for the world to see will happen over my dead body. Never let the public see your failings, missteps, or humiliations.

  I learned that lesson back in business school.

  Nicole’s lips twist into a smile as though reading my mind. “We could also do it in private if that suits you better.”

  “Point taken,” I say with a subtle smile.

  “Alright,” she says, slapping her hand on one thigh as she sits up to rise out of her seat, this morning’s chit-chat done. “I’ll go round up the troops for our meeting.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be there in a bit.”

  When they both leave, I take a moment to brace myself before turning to my computer. Much like leaving my apartment at the exact same time every morning, I follow a strict routine on Fridays.

  The Punishing.

  That’s what I call it. It’s a way to torment myself, specifically on the last workday of the week.

  Why? I don’t know.

  Perhaps it’s to push me into having some semblance of a social life outside of work come the weekend. Not that it has worked thus far. Other than the obligatory release parties, gala events, awards shows, and other mandates for a high profile editor-in-chief, this emotionally unhealthy routine of mine has yet to deter my typical Netflix and take-out nights.

  As I type in his name, I feel it. Like a bad omen.

  Once upon a time—right after the break-up and then again at his engagement announcement—it was a dagger, hanging precariously above my heart, held at bay by nothing more than a flimsy string. These days, that string holds tight, perhaps even growing stronger with the faint threads of indifference that I’ve managed to weave into it with the passing of time.

  Today that string dissolves quicker than cotton candy in acid.

  Reggie’s profile photo on Facebook is not that same stupid fuck-me grin as he poses with yet another celebrity he met working for a record label. It’s not even a real photograph.

  It’s a printout from a sonogram.

  I don’t have to enlarge it to see the tiny blobs that represent itty-bitty hands and itty-bitty feet and even a tiny bump of a nose.

  That dagger comes plunging down into my heart with the speed of a bullet train. It forces the breath out of my lungs with a sound that I refuse to acknowledge as a bona fide sob.

  I will not sob over this.

  Of course they would have children. That’s what married people do. They get married, have kids, move to the suburbs, go on playdates, attend school recitals, hide Easter eggs, go to daughter-daddy dances, celebrate graduations, have grandkids…

  Just as the next legitimate sob comes, I quickly close the screen and rest my face in my hands to let it out.

  I probably have more reason than many women to be hurt by this revelation, which makes my reaction even more painfully humiliating.

  My history with Reggie Holland makes my history with Bryce seem like winning the lottery.

  Reggie was supposed to be the safe bet. He was supposed to be the one who stood by me when I found out that condom breaking had a tiny consequence. He was supposed to be the one who comforted me when that tiny surprise was lost.

  He wasn’t.

  And now he’s the one with the happily ever after.

  Life truly is a bitch.

  Chapter Four

  Bryce

  “How the devil are you two so bloody br
ight-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning?” Smith Harrison, our fashion editor asks, looking pretty green around the gills. For some reason, his British accent makes it all the more amusing.

  We’re in the layout room, looking over the photoshoot that the photographer, and my best friend, Lucien Jameson completed for our next issue.

  Lucien has been with me since I started this magazine straight out of business school. We both come from money and have been friends since prep school. While I was “strongly encouraged” to go to Princeton for undergrad, the alma mater of the Wilmington men for going on five generations now, he was lucky enough to bum around the world with nothing but a backpack and a camera. I suspect there was more to that decision than him simply blowing off conformity, but Lucien has never been forthcoming about it, and I’m not one to pry. All the same, with his prototypical surfer-dude, blonde-haired, perpetually tanned good looks—ironic considering he’s just as much a native New Yorker as I am—I’m sure he did just fine abroad. For a while there, he was the go-to photographer for the international, jet-setting party scene.

  Smith was brought in early on. He was happy to be uprooted from his popular Instagram account where he profiled stylish men’s clothing. All the better if it meant moving to New York City. I love having people on board who aren’t already molded to conformity by the industry.

  “Big daddy knows how to drink responsibly,” I say, interlocking my fingers to crack my knuckles. “Leave the binge drinking to the kiddos.”

  “Or those of us who know how to handle our alcohol,” Lucien adds, giving me a grin as he leans against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. “What you need is a week drinking raki with a bunch of weathered old Greeks on the coast of Crete.”

  “If I ever end up in Greece it won’t be to spend time around a bunch of geezers. Give me birds in bikinis any day,” Smith says as he continues to use the loupe to look at photos.

  “That’s your problem right there,” Lucien says. “Your tolerance level is based on one too many cosmos.”